Pariah
by roulette rouge
Summary: Everyone but Bilbo seems to know that his quiet little handmaiden is desperately in love with him...Bilbo/OC.
1. prologue

Prologue

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It was a very strange affair, in which Bilbo Baggins appeared out of the wild blue again. He had come on a handsome pony, draped in finery of velvets and silks and muslins, the likes of which none of them could say they'd ever seen before. _Foreign _things, said those who had seen him riding in with their own eyes. _It was all very queer. _And this conclusion was often met with much wagging of heads and murmurs of agreement. It was very queer indeed, as they had all thought, for all this time, that Bilbo Baggins was dead.

No one quite knew how it all started, and frankly they didn't want to know thank you very much. It was not hobbit-like to investigate things, much less involve themselves in something as unsavory as an adventure. The day of the occurrence was very much like any other, with tillers tilling and farmers farming, and the weather quite fair. And so, when the old gardener Noakes had come dashing through the winding hills that led downward from Bag End, carrying the news of Bilbo's disappearance with him – all of them were utterly scandalized, to say the least.

He had arrived first in town, passing the market and the Old Mill on his mad dash through the square. Many paused in their wanderings, their tasks, and matters of business, every head turning in interest to watch the old gardener as he hastened onward. It was the first unexpected and rather bizarre thing that had happened that morning, and all before second breakfast – Noakes was the very essence of hobbit-like behavior, a citizen of good repute and often regarded as being quite amiable in nature. He never rushed to do much of anything, not even on the path leading to his master's house at the end of the highest hill in the village. The quickest anyone had ever seen him was a brisk walk, and always it was for the purpose of very important things such as being late for tea or supper. This time he had been undoubtedly more hurried, and everyone that saw him pass later recounted he looked pale as a ghost. Whatever had happened, it left the old gardener fairly unhinged.

His story, when he had a pint of ale in him and had calmed a great deal from the fright he'd suffered, was an astonishing one. A crowd soon gathered around him, all as wide-eyed and slack-mouthed as he, while he told of the tragedy that had befallen the house of Bag End.

"I wouldn't of believed it myself if I didn't see it with me own eyes! Mr. Bilbo off on an adventure. And with odd folk, very odd. Beards and swords and ponies, thirteen of them. Relieved I was to find they were leaving at dawn. On me way up to the house, I seen 'em filing down the path, great thick fellows with dreadful weapons on their person. It downright spooked me, I tell you, and I was shaken to the bone till I left for breakfast. And when I come back, good and settled again from a cheery meal with Primrose, I seen Mr. Bilbo himself tearing through the hills as if a pack o' wild dogs was on his heels. Someone calls out to him, and he says 'Where you off to!' and he says he's goin' on an adventure! I tell ya it all stinks, the whole of it, and I knew nothin' good would come of Gandalf riding into town. Wherever he goes, strange things follow after!"

"Are we certain Mr. Bilbo went of his own accord?" said one of the spectators.

"It stinks! All of it, I tell you!" Another cried. "Mr. Baggins has been kidnapped!"

"They've taken him!" Squeaked another. "He'll have his throat cut in his sleep!"

"Pipe down, the lot of you! I was there," Noakes scolded, wagging his finger. "And anyone who was there could tell ya – Mr. Bilbo was on his lonesome, and he was runnin' through the village on his own two feet. He went after those queer folk, and it was his own self who took him."

It was talked about for weeks after.

An adventure! In Hobbiton, of all the places in the world, where nothing extraordinary ever happened and no one ever did anything unexpected or unpleasant. How very, very odd! It was altogether disturbing, and feathers were understandably ruffled. After all, Mr. Bilbo Baggins had always been the most respectable of gentlehobbits, keeping to himself mostly, though he was very sociable at parties. He always kept his door painted, his garden vibrant, and the hair on his toes was always perfectly groomed, the very picture of seemliness.

"Mark my words," Noakes had said grimly. "We won't be seein' the likes of him again. Dangerous out there. He's cooked for sure!"

The gardener's prediction had been shared by many, and it was one that became more and more likely to be truth as time went on. Hobbiton had since come to terms with what had somehow morphed from prophesy to fact. No one had ever expected to see the likes of Bilbo Baggins again.

His reappearance was met with pale faces, slack mouths and a distribution of fresh gossip that did not cease for months thereafter.

_Mister Baggins has found his way home!_

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_an: i actually had this up as a story called "Lambs Become Lions", but i've decided to go another direction with the story altogether. enjoy! :)_

_summary: Upon returning from his quest with the dwarves of Erebor, Bilbo becomes the pariah of the village, quite ignored and disliked among those who were once friends. He becomes quite lonely and, upon deciding that his hole needs a much needed spring cleaning, he hires a maidservant to help him get the place into tip top shape. _

_disclaimer - all characters, except for my OC's, are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien._


	2. chapter 1

Bilbo rose quite early that morning, and it was excitement that drew him from his warm bed. Why, the girl was coming today, and he was exceedingly happy with the situation he had made for himself by hiring her (even before she had arrived). Her room was made ready, with quilted coverlets and logs for the hearth piled in their basket. They would be cozy quarters, small and intimate, but most likely larger than even her kitchen at home. At one time, too long ago for him to remember, his mother had used it for painting, throwing open all the windows so that the walls glowed with sunlight. He has vague memories of brushes in jars littering the windowsill, the glass blinking back at him, and colors staining canvas. It was all forgotten now, with her long gone. Now it would be _her_ room, and perhaps she would make it live again.

It suddenly occurred to him that he did not even know her name. How silly of him, forgetting to ask such a crucial question. In all fairness, he was absolutely giddy and utterly out of sorts as a result, and therefore did not have the presence of mind to ask. _It will be my first question, to be sure…_

Impatience began to make him restless. He wandered from room to room, fists clenched at his sides, feet padding softly across the polished oak floors. It was deadly quiet, as it had been since he arrived home not months before. He could still picture it as clearly as if it were yesterday – the first time he stepped foot in his comfy little hole. Everything had remained the same as when he'd left it, the smells and warmth and cool slanted shadows in the corridors all familiar and comforting. It was unchanged, quite unlike him, and for the longest time he had felt strange – like he did not belong in the only place he'd ever called home.

Once he had revisited every room twice – the larders, the study, even the breakfast nook, parlor, and library – he found himself standing at the window, peering out over his unruly rose bushes to see if he could spot her. No such luck. He sighed, almost irritable. It was nearly tea-time and he should have liked to invite her to sit with him, investigate her as she kept him company. Perhaps he was being unreasonable, _selfish_ even, for she might be more inclined to settle in before being thrown into the thick of things. And if there was one thing that Bilbo could not stand, it was selfishness – even in himself.

In his defense, he reasoned, he had hardly spoken two sentences together to another living soul since his return. Of course, the other hobbits were civil, mannerly, but did not seek his company as they had before. He knew they spoke of him in whispers, sharing gossip over tea and ale and knitting needles. Often, when he ventured out of his hole (perhaps only for the comfort of the presence of others), they would pass odd looks amidst each other when they thought he couldn't see them. But it was a rare occasion when he could leave his house and not be the talk of the town, and as such it was only when he would take his walks. The hills and trees and sky above him were all silent as they watched him pass. They did not pass judgment on the wanderers and outcasts of the world, for they were as old as the earth itself and had seen things that he couldn't even imagine. War, famine, desolation and tragedy. All manner of uncomfortable affairs that the world often fell prey to in times of hardship and despair. These folk, sheltered from such horrors, knew nothing of the lands outside their borders – and they did not care to, being unadventurous and intolerant beings.

He was no longer a part of them - not anymore.

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The sound of his bell echoed throughout the house, and his ears pricked upward as he sat slumped in his armchair. His soul seemed to lift, heart beating madly in his chest – at last, a companion! A thrill ran through him cold and clear like water. Just in time for tea, as he had hoped! As he hastened toward the door, he had to remind himself not to frighten her. There was no excuse for coming across as frantic when meeting a stranger, not even out of loneliness. He must remember his manners!

Once he had paused for a steeling breath, he gripped the handle and swung the door open.

A small, bent figure stood before him. Her hair was plaited, hidden beneath a ragged brown scarf, but what little he could see was the color of spun wheat. She held herself stiffly, her small pointed shoulders jutting like peaks beneath the fabric of her dress. His heart ached at her appearance; she was so painfully thin and pale.

There passed a moment of awkwardness in which neither of them knew quite what to say. He opened his mouth several times, but no words came, and it only exasperated the blush that rose up the length of his neck and bled into his ears and cheeks. In turn, she stood quietly and waited, eyeing her new master with the wariness of a shy child. Out of desperation, he tried a smile, but it faded quickly and so he rocked back and forth on his heels instead. Behind his back, his hands were balled into tight little fists.

At last, it occurred to him. Where were his manners! Certainly not here with him, not this day.

"Good afternoon!" He said a little too forcefully. It would have to do for now, until his nerves settled and he could exercise some semblance of control once again.

A frail smile turned the corners of her mouth upward. "Afternoon, sir," she said in a voice even smaller than she was. "Pardon me, I'm late, and I know it's tea time -"

He nodded, holding up his hand in what he hoped was in the fashion of graciousness. "Bilbo Baggins, at your service." He gave a low, sweeping bow before straightening again. "No need to apologize, not at all, I am…_sure _there were arrangements to be made, farewells to be said, and other more unpleasant things that must happen when a young girl leaves home. Why don't you come in?"

She, in turn, bowed and took two hesitant steps inside. With something akin to awe in her face, she gawked openly at the size of the foyer and down the length of the hall. Then, as if deciding it was safe, she shuffled forward – careful, but also curious – and Bilbo shut his bright green door behind her.

For a moment, he merely watched as she poked her head in and out of rooms, her bright eyes roving over every object in the house. It was not an uncomfortable silence, not like before, as he was positively humming with excitement at having another breathing creature – at long last!- step into his hole again. He was content simply to follow her as she familiarized herself with the main corridor, the library, pantry, dining room, and breakfast nook.

She stopped in the front parlor, where beams of sunlight flooded the open maps and loose papers lying scattered across the table. The hearth was bare and cold and the rug before it freshly swept and beaten (he'd done it himself just this morning after second breakfast), though there was little he could do about the clutter. It had been his hope, when he first discussed the possibility of employing her with her own father, that she would help him to set everything straight again. He was particularly messy, even for a bachelor.

As happy as he was to let her explore his home, he was also eager to speak with her. Usually, he would have been halfway through tea time by now, and he was certain she would have been too if she were at home with her family. "Would you…care for tea? That is, if you have not already taken it…perhaps, one last time, with your own mother and father…"

At the sound of his voice, she turned, and her eyes were still rather wide with fascination. It took but a moment for her to register what he was asking. "Am I not to serve you, sir?"

He tilted his head in agreement and answered, "usually, yes, you will. But for today, as it is your first, I would wish for you to make yourself as comfortable as possible."

"Thank you, sir," she replied, holding everything she had in the world a little tighter against her chest. It was but a small, paltry bundle. "I would like that very much, yes."

With a grand, sweeping gesture, he pointed her in the direction of the kitchen and followed after her as she left the parlor behind.

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"Firstly," he began, folding his hands in front of him on the table. "And most importantly, mind…tell me your name, my dear."

Her cup steamed in front of her, throwing her pallor into sharp relief so that she looked positively wraithlike. _She needs hasty fattening, poor lamb, _he thought to himself.

"My name is Prim, sir," she replied softly, her eyes roaming over the table. "Primrose Noakes. I prefer Prim, if you please."

"Yes, of course, _Prim, _that's easy enough..." he said, nodding and drawing his lips into a thin, hard line as he spoke. "Your good father, Hallem Noakes, was my own father's gardener at one time."

"Yes, sir, long ago."

"He is in good health, I expect?"

"No, Mr. Baggins…sir." She added _sir _quickly, as if she would be scolded for forgetting it. "It's why he sent me. He can't work no more."

Bilbo felt instantly cruel for drawing such a painful confession from her, though he had only meant to be polite. "I – sorry." He mumbled, feeling his face flush again. "I remember he seemed quite well when I spoke to him last."

She smiled a little at his clumsiness, which, though Bilbo could not see it himself, was very much endearing. "You couldn't of known it, sir, honest," she said. "It was all very sudden like. One day he's fine and dandy and the next…well, that's why I'm here. I'll be sending my wages home."

After a long pause, during which he considered her sadly from across the table, he said, "I do hope you will be comfortable here with me…if not happy, at the very least..._comfortable_."

Her hands closed over her cup, warming her hardened skin with the heat that rolled off the porcelain. "Thank you, sir, I expect I will be."

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He showed her to her room next, quite keen on seeing her reaction.

Standing toward the back, he watched her go first to the window. Not the bed he had made so expertly this morning, nor the magnificent black hearth or the lovely bric-a-brac that lined the stone mantle above it. No, she made straight for the window, gravitating toward it without so much as a glance at anything else around her. It was open, and a breeze as warm and soft as breath came wafting through, rustling over forgotten papers and threading through her plaited hair. Her headscarf billowed slightly, as if tickled by the gust, and then settled back into its folds.

She had only been there for an hour, if that, and he was still endeavoring to figure her out. Quiet and meek, she did not say much and looked at him even less, and during their conversation at tea he could only wheedle a few words from her at a time. He knew her name, that her father had taken ill, and that her mother was no longer with them, and that was all. She was a very private sort, and a part of him was disappointed that she was not more lively and talkative and open with him.

Once she had reached the window, one hand stretched out to rest on the white sill. It was a white hand, thick with callus, and he could see the shine of it even where he stood at the back of the room. She must have worked, then, at some point in her life – and it must have been hard work, too, by the look of her hands. Her clothes were more tattered and threadbare than her headscarf and the apron fastened around her thin waist was no longer white, but a mottled sort of gray. Bilbo did not know the Noakes family well, only that they had worked for his father and lived in the poorer districts of Hobbiton further down the hill. She did not tell him much, but from her look and her clothes he could guess she had been born to a life of poverty and struggle, one that he would not wish on anyone.

"You do…like it, I trust?" He asked, bouncing slightly on the balls of his large, hairy feet.

As if whisked out of some deep trance, she jumped visibly at the unexpected sound of his voice. She turned away from the aperture, her things still wrapped in her arms, and nodded gently. "It's beautiful, sir," she said. "The view, I mean."

His face fell, perhaps more from surprise than displeasure, and he cleared his throat in order to regain composure. "Yes, it is quite lovely. My mother, a long time ago, often painted these exact hills." He peered out of the window, realizing that he hadn't looked out at those familiar sloping valleys in a very long time. "I hardly remember them, if at all…only the colors she used. Earthy ones. Brown and greens and golds."

A wistful smile made his cheeks glow, and when he had come back from remembering, he found her watching him. Her expression was one that he could not seem to place, though it seemed quite distant and dream-like in its softness. It was the first time she had looked directly at him for more than an instant, and he was not altogether certain of what to make of her sudden interest. He fidgeted self-consciously under her gaze, pulling at hems and fiddling his fingers at his side.

And then, the moment was over, and she returned to her timid observance of the cracks in the floor. "It is a lovely room, sir," she said, her voice hoarse with heavy silence. "I'm sure I'll be very happy here."

He left her to her unpacking and situating, and the house seemed lonely once again.


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